The Line Rends
by PeacefulPoet
Summary: Short story depicting a warehouse and the workers within. Not exactly a fun read, but it depicts modern working conditions in todays blue collar workers. Inspiration taken from Upton Sinclairs 1906's "The Jungle".


Peaceful Poet

2/16/2015

The Line Rends

Gates of wrought iron, you enter the maw of despair. Daily toil with no means to an end, yet you hold your head aloft with some inhumane energy. You know what lays beyond that set of doors. Repetition. Always repetition. The door of your hatchback creaks shut, almost noisily jovial at your misery. Turning your head skyward, the warm orb hangs overhead. A breeze of cool green air revives resurrects that same pressing thought. Soon, it will be dim, with no sun to warm your back. Verily, the air will soon be hot, stifling. Into a crevice where age and time are lost. Forward, into that warehouse.

It's the dust that breaks upon your face at first. Ages of misplaced products which no name or price anymore. With each footfall, clouds billow like plumes of smoke. Even the lightest of steps swirl with haze as the workers trudge to their stations. You can see the lines in their faces. Each breath heaving sighs with coordinated patterns. We have made this walk before, and we shall make it for days, weeks, months, and years to come. The signs hand limply upon the walls, giving misplaced encouragement in an already dead facility. "Confidence is KEY!", an orange obnoxious sign reads. The cheap neon trim chips and creates piles on the cold concrete.

With a shudder, the metal sheets are pulled open. Gusts of air swirl into the pit, and the sunlight happily plays up and down the dank room. Then, the trucks roar into place. Like giant maws of horrid beasts, they swallow the sunlight and seal into place. You gaze at the sunken faces of your fellow workers, pulling massive crates and pallets into those mouths. The darkness hides their faces. Must not look at the administrators, for drudgery will be marked as complacency. Now you are upon your turn, a hallway into the farthest reaches of this tin prison. Quickly, quickly, to your post! For the clock has turned, do not be late.

There they lay, in heaps and piles. Boards made of paper and dust. Move the pallets into place and reach for those stacks. Boxes must be made, and no time to dally. So your hands move unknowing. A motion with no conscious or understanding. The screech of the tape machine signals success, and so it goes on for a thousand more seconds. Each second suspended, and each moment is stressed. Your hands are deft. They know the gestures for a successful movement. You look sideways, and there stands your associate. Her face is damp with concentration, her stapler a flurry of silver. Box. Paper. Box. Paper. Screech and Snap. Screech and Snap. The conveyer groans as the boxes shuffle down the line.

Suddenly, the line shuts off. Groans from the workers, you know someone has hurt themselves. So much for that raise for a perfect safety streak, a party for good performance. A woman climbs down the upstairs ladder, blood covering her sliced hand. You want to feel bad for her. You want to console her and show her sympathy. But now she has ruined another month, and the board will have to call another meeting tomorrow. Another worthless meeting where grown adults are spoken to like toddlers.

You gaze down at your hands. Once smooth and fair, they are sanded and ground apart. The boxes have taken their toll. Each rough edge and deep line etches further with each stroke. Each stripe of red on your wrists deepened with each motion. Again, the line moves, and your mind goes blank once more. Daydreaming of a job that fulfills your dreams. Daydreaming of anything really, any vacation from the horrid reality. And then the line shuts down again, and you realize you're covered in blood.

Rushed out with a bound hand, you didn't see the tape blade slice across your thumb. Pats on the back from a hand. You're supervisor looks on in pity, his eyes boring into the back of your head. "Get that looked at, but be back tomorrow. We have another big shipment coming in." The car door creaks shut, and all is silent. You can still hear the sounds. Screech and Snap. Screech and Snap.


End file.
